


i dare you to move (like today never happened)

by shineyma



Series: break the glass [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing that never happened in my soulmate au series. You'll be glad it didn't. </p><p>[AU during and after chapter seven of "sometimes (i find it hard to believe)"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. what happens next?

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous said: "Prompt: one thing that never happened in your biospecialist soulmate au. Please?"
> 
> warnings: character death, language, mentions of violence
> 
> This takes place during/after chapter seven of "sometimes (i find it hard to believe)", fyi; originally, it appeared as chapter thirteen of "a prompt response (is only polite)", but I've decided to make it a separate story, since there will be a second chapter. That will be up tomorrow, most likely.

Fitz gets shot in South Ossetia.

The Bus is late; Grant has already spent three minutes trying to stop the bleeding, to no avail. He’s shouting for Jemma as he carries Fitz up the ramp, into the cargo bay, and she appears in the lab at once. Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t hesitate: she orders Grant to put Fitz on a lab table, then gets to work.

It’s too late. Jemma does everything humanly possible, but the bullet tore the femoral artery, and, realistically, Fitz was dead the moment he got shot.

Jemma refuses to accept it. She’s hysterical, continuing her efforts to save him long after he’s bled out, and eventually, Grant has to physically drag her away from…from the body. May, rage and grief written on her face, fetches a sedative, and Grant injects Jemma with a whispered apology.

It’s fast acting; she goes limp in his arms mid-scream.

Skye is on her knees next to the table, sobbing. It’s the only sound in the lab, and it seems absurdly loud, despite the way she presses her hands to her mouth to stifle it. After a long moment, May kneels down next to her and places a hand on her shoulder, head bowed.

Coulson has been standing just inside the door, frozen, but May’s movement spurs him into action. He steps forward, past May and Skye, and gently closes Fitz’s eyes. Then he spins on his heel and walks out of the lab and up the stairs, face contorted with pure fury.

Grant just stands there, cradling his unconscious soulmate. He has no idea what’s going to happen next.

\---

What happens next is an inquiry into Victoria Hand’s actions. It will take weeks, if not months, for the committee to present its findings, and in the meantime, her suspension from active duty is very poor recompense.

Jemma stays unconscious long past the point when the sedative should have worn off, but that’s not particularly surprising, what with how poorly she’s been sleeping lately. Grant stays with her the entire time, sitting propped up against the wall as she sleeps with her head in his lap. The rest of the team leaves them be; he gets periodic updates through text message (hence his knowledge of the inquiry), but for nearly twelve hours, he and Jemma are left alone.

During those twelve hours, the Bus returns to the Hub. Coulson texts him that SHIELD wants to take Fitz’s body, and he texts back an order not to let them. Jemma deserves the chance to say goodbye properly, if she wants it.

Coulson doesn’t say anything about Grant giving him orders, just texts back an acknowledgement.

Mostly, Grant spends the entire time stewing. In rage, in guilt, in grief—both on Jemma’s behalf and, surprisingly, on his own. He thinks of Fitz calling him “Mister Save-the-Day” and wants to hit something. He wants to _break_ something. He wants to skin Victoria Hand alive and then tear SHIELD down, brick by brick.

He should’ve made Fitz leave. Hell, he should have abandoned the mission as soon as he realized there wasn’t an extraction waiting. He should’ve had a _goddamned_ back-up plan, because this is SHIELD and he fucking _knew_ that SHIELD couldn’t be trusted. SHIELD tried to _murder_ Jemma last week, for fuck’s sake.

This week, they’ve succeeded in murdering Fitz.

They’ve been parked at the Hub for nearly an hour when Jemma finally wakes. He hears her breathing change and stops stroking her hair, which he’s been doing to calm himself for the last thirty minutes. Only his unwillingness to let her wake alone has kept him from leaving the Bus and hunting down Victoria Hand to express his displeasure in person.

He holds his breath as Jemma turns her face into his thigh, sighing a little. It only takes a moment for the memory to hit her, and she shoots upright.

“Fitz!” she cries.

She starts to scramble off the bed, and he grabs her, holding her in place. He can’t let her go down to the lab until she’s accepted the truth. He can’t let her be faced with Fitz’s body until she knows exactly what she’s going to see.

“Let me go,” she says, shoving at him. “I have to see Fitz! How is he? Is he—Why are—”

She stutters to a halt, apparently reading something in his face.

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” he says quietly. “He’s gone.”

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head. “No. No! He’s not—he can’t—you’re _lying_!”

She renews her struggling, and he tightens his grip on her, afraid she’s going to fall right off the bed.

“He’s _dead_ , Jemma,” he says firmly. He’d like to lie to her, pretend that Fitz really is alive and well downstairs, but knows that it would only hurt her more in the long run.

“Stop lying!” she cries. “That isn’t _funny_ , Grant!”

“I’m not lying,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jemma.”

“No,” she says, still fighting him. “No. No, Fitz. _No._ ”

The last denial comes out as a sob, and she stops struggling, falling against him. He wraps his arms around her and just holds on. Her best friend is dead because the organization she’s given her life to betrayed him. There’s nothing he can say to make this better.

She sobs into his shoulder, gasping denials between ragged breaths, and he bites down on his own emotions. All he can do is hold her and murmur apologies into her hair. (He doesn’t say that everything will be okay. It won’t.)

It takes nearly an hour, but eventually her crying slows. She keeps her face pressed to his shoulder for a moment longer, then pulls back, swiping at her eyes.

“I want to see him.”

He takes a deep breath. “Jemma—”

“Please, Grant,” she interrupts hoarsely. “I need to—I need to see him.”

He knew she’d want to—kept it possible, in fact—but suddenly, it seems like a bad idea. There’s no way he can say no, though, not when she’s looking at him like that, face still wet with tears.

“Okay,” he says. “He’s downstairs.”

She nods and slides off his lap, then stands. He’s a little slower in following suit, stiff after spending the past thirteen hours in the same position, and she twists her hands together as she waits for him. As soon as he’s on his feet, she’s at the door, sliding it open.

Then she just stops, standing in the doorway, staring blankly out at the empty cabin, one hand clenching the door handle. Her breathing is unsteady, and for a moment he’s afraid she’s going to faint.

“I need to see him,” she says quietly. “But I don’t—I don’t…”

He gently tugs her hand away from the door and laces his fingers with hers.

“I’m right here,” he says, equally quiet. “Take your time.”

She nods once, firmly, and then steps out of the bunk. She keeps a tight grip on his hand as they cross the lounge, and his fingers are entirely numb by the time she stops again before they step out onto the catwalk.

“We don’t have to do this now,” he tells her, after a few minutes in which she makes no move to continue.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I do.”

Her voice shakes, and he’s not surprised to see that her eyes are filled with tears again. She swallows them back, however, and finally steps through the bulkhead. She leads the way down the stairs, taking deep breaths as she goes, and clings to his hand all the more tightly when they reach the bottom.

She stops again, staring determinedly at Lola, and he takes the opportunity to check the lab, cursing himself for not texting anyone to see if it had been cleaned up a little. He doesn’t want to imagine what Jemma will do if it’s still in the same state it was earlier, with Fitz’s blood staining the table and floor.

Luckily, he _did_ have the foresight to clean her up a little while she was out—the sheer amount of blood her efforts to save Fitz left on her hands would have probably sent her right back into unconsciousness.

Also luckily, the lab has indeed been cleaned. (He wonders whom by—hopes with all of his spiteful heart that they marched Victoria Hand down here and made her do it.) Fitz’s body is still on the table where he died, but a sheet has been pulled over him.

Skye is sitting on a stool next to the table, head bent over a tablet computer. He has no idea what she’s doing, but he hopes it’s horrible.

It’s nearly five minutes before Jemma finally looks away from Lola. She still doesn’t look at the lab, though—just up at Grant.

“All right,” she says quietly. “I’m ready.”

She’s crying again; tears slipping silently down her face, rather than the gasping sobs of earlier. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her hand and leads her into the lab.

Skye looks up as they enter, then stands hurriedly, letting her tablet fall to the floor. She winces at the loud clatter it makes, but Jemma doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are fixed on the sheet-covered body, lying silent and still on the surface which has only ever been used for brilliant inventions before. Slowly, carefully, she steps up, next to the table.

Then, once again, she stops, just staring down at the sheet. Her nails are digging in to the back of Grant’s hand, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither does Skye. For several eternally long moments, they just stand there in complete silence.

Finally, Jemma reaches forward with her free hand and pulls the sheet back, away from Fitz’s face. She draws in a deep breath, and her grip on Grant’s hand tightens even further. Her tears are falling faster, now, and she swallows loudly, twice.

After a moment, she leans down and presses her lips to Fitz’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against his skin. In the silence of the lab, it sounds like a shout. “I’m so sorry.”

Then she straightens, smooths a hand over Fitz’s hair, and draws the sheet back up.

“I never asked,” she says, keeping her eyes on the table. “Are you injured, Grant?”

“No,” he admits. It’s difficult to say, to confess that he made it out of that disastrous op with barely a scratch, while Fitz was fatally shot, but he does it. “I’m not.”

“Good,” she says quietly. She nods once, mostly to herself, and then takes a step back from the table. “I need to see Agent Coulson.”

“Simmons,” Skye starts, then breaks off. She runs a shaking hand through her hair, and Grant notes the absence of her tracking bracelet. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Jemma shakes her head. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Skye.”

“Yes, I do,” Skye disagrees.

She steps forward and hugs Jemma, murmuring another apology. Jemma returns the hug with one arm, her other hand still holding tightly to Grant’s, and whispers something in Skye’s ear. Skye nods against her shoulder, straightens to kiss her cheek, then pulls away.

“I understand,” she says. “Me, too.”

Grant has no idea what just happened. Jemma swipes at her face with her free hand, then looks up at him. Her tears have stopped, and resolve has settled on to her face.

“I need to speak with Agent Coulson,” she repeats.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Please,” she says. She looks down at the table one last time, straightens the edge of the sheet covering Fitz, and then nods. “Let’s go.”

They travel up the stairs and across the lounge in silence. Whatever resolve has settled over Jemma seems to have strengthened her somewhat; her breathing is steadier, and she doesn’t hesitate to start up the stairs to Coulson’s office.

She’s still clinging desperately to Grant’s hand, though. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

She walks right into Coulson’s office without knocking, interrupting the conversation he and May are having. Both of them get to their feet, clearly concerned.

“Jemma,” Coulson starts, voice soft with sympathy.

“I quit,” she says, stopping him before he can start.

Coulson nods sadly. “I completely understand. I’ll put in an order to have you transferred to the Sandbox at once.”

“No,” she says. “You _don’t_ understand. I _quit_.” She pulls her badge out of her pocket and drops it on his desk. “I am entirely finished with SHIELD.”

Grant’s immediate reaction is relief. She’ll be safe, out of the line of fire, and he won’t have to worry about her dying while he stands helplessly by, the way Fitz did less than fifteen hours ago.

“Simmons,” May says. “I know you’re upset right now, but—”

“No, Agent May,” Jemma interrupts. Her voice is shaking. “I’m not upset. I’m _furious_.”

That stuns them all.

“My best friend,” she says, voice still shaking. “My partner—my _brother_ —is dead. And he’s dead because SHIELD sent him into hostile territory with absolutely no plan to pull him out. This was entirely preventable. It didn’t have to happen. There is not a _single_ excuse for the fact that it did.”

She stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and shakes her head.

“I will not give a single moment more of my time to SHIELD,” she says clearly.

May and Coulson exchange a look that could, from a certain perspective, be considered helpless.

“It’s understandable,” Coulson says carefully. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I’m angry, too. But I don’t want you to do anything you’re going to regret, later.”

“The only thing I regret,” Jemma tells him. “Is that I ever believed SHIELD was anything other than a lie. It’s not worthy of the work we’ve put into it. It’s not worthy of the _blood_ we’ve shed on its behalf. It never was.”

Coulson looks at her for a long moment, then turns his attention to Grant. “Ward? Anything to say?”

Grant looks at Jemma. She looks back steadily. All of her anger and grief is written plainly on her face, along with so much guilt that it physically hurts him.

She probably will regret it, someday. But he’s selfish enough to want her to do it, anyway.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks. She nods, and he looks back to Coulson, shrugging.

“All right,” Coulson says, resigned. “Where would you like us to take you, Doctor Simmons?”

“Back to Italy,” she answers at once. “As soon as possible, if you please.”

Coulson nods at May, who sighs. Then she leaves the office, pausing only briefly to press a hand to Jemma’s shoulder.

Silence reigns in the office for a long moment, and then Jemma finally lets go of Grant’s hand.

“I’m sure there are things you need to speak about,” she says quietly to him. “I’m going to start packing.”

He doesn’t want to leave her alone, but he _does_ need to speak to Coulson. He wouldn’t mind doing so with her present, but he can see that she’s about to start crying again, and she obviously doesn’t want to be here when it happens. He doesn’t blame her, either; it would undermine the impressive show she’s put on here, and that would be a shame.

“I’ll be right down,” he promises.

She nods and leaves the office without a backward glance.

“The team’s done,” Coulson says once she’s gone. “Skye quit earlier, and now Simmons. And with Fitz…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You’re welcome to return to the specialist rotation, Agent Ward. Unless you’ll be quitting, too.”

Grant thinks quickly. His mission is clearly a bust, anyway. Coulson must not know how he was brought back to life. If he did, they wouldn’t be sitting parked at the Hub while Fitz’s body cools downstairs. Whatever doctor or drug or magic resurrected Coulson, he’s entirely clueless. There’s nothing more Grant can do on the Bus; he should accept the offer to return to the rotation and get himself put back on Garrett’s crew, so they can start back at square one. That’s what he should do, from a tactical standpoint. But Jemma…

The Bus takes off as he stands there thinking, and the flight time blinks on to the monitor on the wall: ETA 90 minutes. May’s going to floor it, then. It’s the push he needs to make his choice.

Garrett’s dying, but he’s been dying for years. Jemma needs him more.

“I’d like to request a leave of absence, sir,” he decides.

“With the option to resign at a later date?” Coulson guesses.

That sounds about right.

“Yes, sir,” he agrees. “I’ll evaluate how things stand in, say…six months.”

Coulson nods. “I’ll arrange it. All of the paperwork will be in order before we reach Italy. There is the matter of your debrief…”

Right. SHIELD will need a report on the clusterfuck of a mission that ended with its best engineer dead and its best biochemist resigning. Frankly, though, Grant’s not in a hurry to do SHIELD any favors.

(Six months. He’ll take six months to look after Jemma and supports her while she grieves, and then he and Garrett are going to tear this whole thing down.)

“I’ll send you an email,” he says.

“That the best I’m gonna get?” Coulson asks.

Grant glances over his shoulder at the door. His soulmate is, doubtlessly, currently crying her eyes out over her dead best friend, who is only in that condition because SHIELD abandoned him in the middle of a war-zone.

“Yep,” he says.

“Okay,” Coulson says. He walks around the desk and extends a hand. “It’s been an honor working with you, Grant. I’m sorry things had to end this way.”

“So am I, sir,” Grant says honestly. He shakes Coulson’s hand, then excuses himself.

Jemma isn’t in her bunk. She’s in Fitz’s, sitting motionless on the bed, clutching a cardigan to her chest. She’s crying again—not the desperate sobs of earlier, but not exactly silently, either. Her unsteady breathing is loud in the funereal silence that hangs over the entire Bus.

He hesitates briefly, unsure of his welcome, but he’s not really capable of just standing back while Jemma cries. So he enters the bunk, closes the door behind him, and sits down next to her. It’s the right thing to do; she immediately turns into his side, hiding her face in his arm.

It can’t be a comfortable position for her, so he pulls her into his lap and lets her arrange herself against him. She never stops crying, never stops with those horrible, unsteady breaths.

Once again, there’s nothing he can do but hold her.

She’s still clutching the cardigan. It’s one of Fitz’s, of course, made of ugly, scratchy wool, and the feel of it against his neck, where Jemma is holding it between their bodies, makes him feel almost as awful as Jemma’s tears do.

He was supposed to protect Fitz. It was his job. He promised Jemma.

But he’s here, alive, and Fitz is dead.

There’s nothing he can do for Fitz now. Nothing except take care of Fitz’s best friend. He silently swears, to Fitz’s ghost and to himself, to do a better job with Jemma than he did with Fitz.

He sits there, holding Jemma and stroking her hair, and promises himself that once she’s done mourning Fitz—and that’s a long way in the future, he knows—she’ll never have reason to cry, ever again. He’ll make sure of it. He’ll kill anyone who so much as makes her frown.

Every person even tangentially involved in what happened to Fitz is going to die. SHIELD, HYDRA, whatever. They’re all going to die. Everyone who planned the mission. Every pilot who flew one of SHIELD’s jets over that compound. The agents who gathered the intel on the device. The higher-ups that approved the op.

He holds Jemma, and he swallows back his own grief, and he promises himself that he’s going to kill them all. Starting with Victoria Hand.


	2. welcome to the fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma feels like she's underwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go. Jemma's POV after the events of the previous chapter.
> 
> I forgot to mention last time: the title comes from "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please be gentle if you review!

Jemma feels like she’s underwater.

There seems to be a barrier between her and the rest of the world; her senses are diminished, sounds muffled and sights out of focus. The only things she can focus on clearly are the lancing pain in her chest and the horrible boulder of grief and guilt and anger that’s crushing her.

Her best friend is dead.

Leopold Fitz, who has been her partner and competitor and brother and best friend for more than ten years, is dead. He was shot and killed on a mission for SHIELD.

Her best friend is _dead_.

SHIELD didn’t just send him on the mission that killed him. It _abandoned_ him on it. It told him there was an extraction coming and never planned for one at all, just left him there to die. And die he did.

Her _best friend_ is dead.

She’s losing time. Just little bits, here and there: one moment she’s in Coulson’s office, the next, in Fitz’s bunk. She has no memory of movement, or even of planning movement. She can’t bring herself to be concerned.

_Her best friend is dead_.

She’s underwater, far below the surface, and she clings desperately to Grant for fear that she’ll drown. Would it matter if she did? She’s not sure. Perhaps it’s not her own drowning she fears, but Grant’s. He’s all she has left, now, and she can’t let go. Even as she clings to him, however, the barrier that blocks her from the world keeps him at a distance: she can feel him—his hand in hers, his arms around her, his lips at her temple—solid and steady as always, but she can’t muster the concentration to speak to him, to address the way his eyes watch her, so full of concern. Concern she doesn’t deserve.

Her best friend is dead, and it’s her fault.

He said it himself, just a week ago: it was _her_ idea to leave the lab at all. They could have stayed, safe and protected, in their lab postings, running experiments and models and inventing useful tools. They could have stayed where it was safe, where the only danger was the occasional explosion, where there were no bombs and no separatists and no _guns_.

They could have been safe, but Jemma wanted adventure. She certainly got one, didn’t she?

Of course, she’s not the only one at fault. She bears the bulk of the blame, certainly, but there’s plenty more to go around. To go to SHIELD.

_SHIELD_. SHIELD which sent her best friend and her soulmate into a war-zone. SHIELD which _abandoned_ her best friend and her soulmate in a war-zone. It strikes her, again and again. She’s dedicated her _life_ to SHIELD: ten years and the best of her brilliant mind, entirely focused on advancing SHIELD’s agenda, on prolonging the lives of its agents in whatever ways she could.

Ten years, entirely wasted.

SHIELD isn’t what she thought it was. She thought it was a force for good, for peace—an organization acting in the best interests of the world at large, doing its best to save the general populace from threats of uncertain origin. She never imagined that SHIELD itself could be a threat.

It is, though. SHIELD _betrayed_ Fitz—Fitz who was only doing the right thing, who was risking his life, despite his lack of training, to stop the device that was too dangerous to leave in enemy hands. He _trusted_ SHIELD, and in return for his trust, SHIELD stabbed him in the back. SHIELD might as well have pulled the trigger itself.

She resigned, earlier. Or at least she thinks she did. She planned to, walking up to Coulson’s office, and her badge is gone, so she must have. She remembers being in Coulson’s office, but it’s hazy. She doesn’t have the focus to sharpen the memory, to recall the exact details, but she thinks she resigned.

She must have done; Grant is packing her things for her.

She sits on her bed and watches him, her arms wrapped around herself, clutching one of Fitz’s cardigans to her chest. She wonders if Grant will pack Fitz’s things, as well. Perhaps he already has. She’s not sure how they got here, or when. She was crying earlier, before, sitting in Grant’s lap and sobbing into his shoulder.

Now they’re in her bunk, and Grant is packing her things, and she…she should help, but she can’t move. She can’t bear to let go of the cardigan she holds, the little piece of Fitz here in her arms. She can’t set it aside. She can’t remove her arms from around herself, either; if she does, she may just shatter into a million pieces.

So she sits, and she watches, and she holds desperately to Fitz’s cardigan.

She can’t believe…she can’t believe that she’s never going to see him again. It’s impossible to comprehend, that he won’t be there, across the room or on the other side of the lab bench. She can’t…she can’t _imagine_ it, can’t picture it, working alone, without her partner/sounding board/devil’s advocate. She doesn’t know if she remembers _how_.

She doesn’t know that she wants to. She may never be able to enter a laboratory again, never so much as pick up a test tube. She wanted to use her knowledge to save lives, but that’s obviously not going to happen any longer; how can she save the lives of strangers when she couldn’t even save the life of her best friend?

She blinks and the scene changes; she’s in Grant’s bunk, now. In the same position, though—sitting on his bed and watching as he packs. He must have resigned, too. She should feel guilty about that, but she’s only relieved. He’s seen SHIELD for the lie that it is. He won’t risk his life again. That’s good.

She wonders, vaguely and without much interest, where they’re going to go. Since graduating from the Academy (she was so proud that day, so proud of herself and of Fitz, so proud to swear her life to a lie), she’s always lived on SHIELD bases. She gave up her on-base quarters when they accepted the assignment to Coulson’s team; she has a storage unit full of everything she couldn’t bring with her, but no bed to sleep in.

It takes her nearly five minutes to remember that the case is not the same for Grant. It was less than a week ago that he sat beside her, driving along the coast, and told her about the various properties and identities he has, scattered all over the world. They’ll go to one of those, then, she assumes. Somewhere SHIELD can’t touch them, can’t pull them back and betray them again.

She’s crying again. Perhaps she never stopped.

“Jemma,” Grant says. He’s crouching in front of her, his hands on her knees, and she must have lost time again, because all of his things are packed, now, stacked by the door. “ _Jemma_.”

She looks away from the door, back to her soulmate’s eyes, dark and deep and so full of worry for her.

She doesn’t deserve it.

Her tears turn suddenly to sobbing; harsh, violent gasps that shake her whole body. She fears that she will shake apart, and welcomes the idea.

Grant says her name again, less prompting and more concern, and then he joins her on the bed, pulling her into his lap. She goes willingly; she doesn’t deserve the comfort, but she craves it so desperately, she can’t resist. She twists herself in his lap, sobs into his shoulder, keeping Fitz’s cardigan pressed between them.

She cries for a long time. The sobs diminish, eventually, but the tears remain. Every time she thinks she’s got them under control, she remembers anew that she’ll never see Fitz again, that she’ll never bounce another idea off of him, never collaborate on a new invention, never test another hypothesis, and the tears continue to flow.

At one point, she realizes things have changed somewhat. One of Grant’s arms has been removed from around her, although the other remains, hand still rubbing her back. The cadence of his voice is different, too—soothing murmurs replaced by a crisp, businesslike tone. She can’t understand the words at all, and it takes her far too long to process that that’s because he’s speaking Italian, not English.

Recognizing the language shakes something loose, and she remembers telling Coulson that she wanted to be taken back to Italy. Back to the villa where they spent five days, languishing on holiday while Fitz was here, on the Bus.

The last week of her best friend’s life, and she spent it away from him. She cries harder.

The flow of Grant’s words falters briefly, and his hand on her back tightens. She feels him shift a little, feels the press of his lips against her hair, and then his one-sided conversation resumes. It only lasts a few moments longer, though, and then his other arm is around her again.

“Jemma,” he says quietly. “We’ll be landing soon. Is there anything in the storage area you don’t want to leave behind?”

She doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is Fitz, and she can’t bring him along. She can’t think of anything else, can’t straighten things in her mind enough to remember what’s on the Bus and what’s in her storage unit in London. She must say so aloud, or make some sort of indication of what she’s thinking, because Grant kisses her hair again.

“That’s fine,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything.”

Of course he will. Of _course_ he will. She shouldn’t make him, though. It’s so horribly selfish of her; he was on that mission, too. He nearly died as well. Who knows when he last slept or ate? She shouldn’t make him do everything. She should ask if there’s anything _he_ needs, any way _she_ can help _him_.

But she doesn’t. She can’t. She’s physically and mentally incapable of doing anything other than nodding against Grant’s shoulder and continuing to cry.

She blinks and things are different again. She starts a little, this time, because Grant is gone; she’s sitting on the couch in the lounge, Skye next to her, holding her hand. Where’s Grant? Where has he gone? He was with her just a moment ago, wasn’t he?

…What if he wasn’t? What if it was just her imagination? What if he’s dead, too, and she was just fooling herself, pretending he was still alive to comfort her? Her heart races, her breathing stutters, and her throat closes up, which is the only thing that keeps her from screaming. _Where is he_?

“Simmons. Hey, Simmons. _Jemma_.”

She hears Skye’s voice as if from very far away, and she’s too lost in her sudden panic to respond.

“Jemma,” Skye says again. “Ward’s _fine_. He just went downstairs to load up the car, remember? He’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

She _doesn’t_ remember. Doesn’t remember Grant leaving, or telling her where he was going. Doesn’t remember Skye reminding her of this before, although it’s clear from her tone that she has.

She thinks she must be going mad. It doesn’t scare her the way it should.

She still feels as though she’s underwater. It’s appropriate. She _would_ be underwater, if not for Fitz. If not for Grant. They both saved her last week, Grant with his parachute and Fitz with the antiserum, and if they hadn’t, she’d be underwater right now, her body sunk beneath the ocean waves.

No. No, the metaphor is faulty. If she were a corpse in the ocean (as she deserves to be), she would eventually float back to the surface, as nearly all corpses do. In a week, perhaps, longer if the water was particularly cold or if she became trapped underneath some obstruction, she would surface again.

But Jemma knows she won’t be surfacing again any time soon, so the comparison is inaccurate.

“Jemma?”

Grant’s back. She throws herself off the couch and into his arms, relieved. He’s still here. He hasn’t left her. He’s alive, and solid, and real. She remembers, belatedly, that if he were dead, her timer would reflect it. It’s still green. Isn’t it? She pulls her right arm away from Grant long enough to check—it is—and then resumes her desperate grasp.

She can hear him speaking, feels the rumble in his chest where her ear rests against it, but isn’t capable of resolving the sounds into words. She doesn’t think he’s addressing her, in any case—she can hear Skye’s voice, still so very far away, responding.

Wrapped in Grant’s arms, her panic begins to fade, and, gradually, she begins to return slightly to her senses. Not entirely (she’s still underwater) but enough to process sounds into words.

“—like four times, and she kept forgetting,” Skye is saying. “She seems pretty freaked.”

“Okay,” Grant sighs. He sounds tired. “Thanks, Skye.”

“No problem,” she says. “Are you, uh, going to stay in Italy long?”

“Probably not,” Grant says, and she wonders, vaguely, why he sounds so grim. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Thanks,” Skye says. “Not really sure where I’m gonna go, either, so…”

Her mind clears enough for her to realize exactly what’s happening. Skye and Grant are saying goodbye to one another. That’s right; she and Grant are leaving, aren’t they? He was just loading up the car, so it must be time to go.

Skye is not Fitz, but she _is_ a dear friend, and Jemma doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. So she forces herself to focus, struggles to the surface, pulls away from Grant, and steps toward Skye.

“Goodbye, Skye,” she manages.

Skye’s face crumples a little, but she forces it back into a smile. “Bye, Jemma.”

Skye hugs her, and Jemma hugs back. She can feel tears building again (she’ll never hug Fitz again), but she swallows them back. It’s a long hug; twice, Skye draws in breath as though to speak, but she never does. Eventually, Skye gives her one last squeeze and steps away.

Jemma doesn’t return to hugging Grant. She does take his hand, for fear of drowning, but she doesn’t latch on to him again. She can’t—they need to leave, and he can’t walk if she’s clinging to him like a teddy bear.

She doesn’t listen to the rest of Grant and Skye’s conversation. Can’t, really. She’s already sinking again, gravity pulling her down beneath the waves, and it takes all of her remaining focus to stay upright.

Sometime later, Grant squeezes her hand, gaining her attention. She looks up at him, blinks away the tears that have been building again (she’ll never again spend all night here in the lounge with Fitz, watching horrid movies with iffy science, mocking the plot holes and dialogue and general idiocy), and makes herself listen.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks. His voice is low, gentle, as though speaking too loudly will cause her to shatter.

It just might.

She can’t find her voice, so she simply nods. She’s ready to be away from here, ready to leave this awful plane which has brought her nothing but misery.

“Okay,” he says. He smiles reassuringly at her, and she realizes for the first time that he’s injured. There’s a cut on his face, going through the corner of his bottom lip and down to his chin. It’s red and aggravated, and she thinks she should put something on it. There’s ointment in the lab…

Her mind goes to Fitz, silent and still on the table, and the thought slips away.

Grant says something else, but she can’t listen, can’t force the sounds into words. Perhaps he realizes this, or perhaps it wasn’t important, because all he does is squeeze her hand again and start walking, pulling her gently along behind him.

She follows him out of the lounge and down the stairs, into the cargo bay. She remembers standing on the ramp last week, looking down at a forty thousand foot drop, and that leads her back to the lab, Fitz breaking the quarantine to be beside her, where he belongs. Belong _ed_.

She’s crying again.

Grant leads her through the cargo bay and down the ramp without pausing. There’s a vehicle waiting at the bottom of the ramp—bigger than the one from last week, she notes vaguely—and he opens the passenger side door for her and helps her in. He doesn’t let go of her hand until she’s settled, at which point he untangles their fingers and turns her hand over to bare her wrist.

“Jemma,” he says. “I need you to focus for a second, okay?”

It’s hard. It’s so hard, but she tries. For Grant. She takes a deep breath and struggles her way to the surface, pushing aside Fitz and grief and Fitz and shame and Fitz and guilt and Fitz and anger and Fitz, then gives Grant a little nod.

“Thank you,” he says. “This won’t take long, I promise. I want you to look at your timer, okay?”

She does.

“It’s green, right?” he asks. It is. “You know what that means?”

She nods. “You’re alive.” (Unlike Fitz.)

“That’s right,” he agrees. “I’m alive. I survived, and you still have me, and you’re not going to lose me.”

This sounds like a goodbye. She looks away from her timer, up at him, worried.

“There’s something I have to take care of,” he says, answering the question she can’t find words for. “It’ll only take a few minutes, but it’s really important. If you keep a watch on your timer and make sure it stays green while I’m gone, do you think you’ll be okay alone for a second?”

She wants to say no. She wants to beg him not to leave her, even for an instant. But if it’s important…if it will only be a few minutes…

She nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He leans in and kisses her, very gently and very briefly, then straightens. He turns back after taking only a single step away. “What color is your timer?”

She checks. “Green.”

“Okay,” he says. “Keep an eye on that, okay? I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” she says. He nods and closes the door.

As soon as he walks away, it all comes rushing back. The emotions and the water, both, drowning her and crushing her and stealing away her breath.

Grant will be back in a moment. Fitz won’t be back at all.

She tries to breathe through it. She keeps her eyes on her timer, on the steady green glow, and reminds herself that he’s alive, he’s just gone to do something, he’ll be back. He’ll be back. He’s real, he’s alive, he’s just gone to do something. He’ll be back.

Panic is creeping in, anyway.

She looks around the car. With a brief flash of clarity, which stalls the panic for a moment, she realizes that it’s bigger than the last one because it needs to be, to hold all of their things. There are boxes and suitcases piled in the backseat, and doubtlessly more in the boot.

Grant loaded the car, she remembers. When he was gone earlier, he was doing this. What’s he doing now?

She checks her timer. It’s still green.

She shifts, restless, and looks around again. She doesn’t like being here, doesn’t like that the car is parked so close to the Bus. The Bus is SHIELD, and she wants away from it. That won’t be easy, though. SHIELD is everywhere and everything (and all of it a lie).

Grant said he would only be a few minutes. How long has it been?

She checks her timer. It’s still green. He’s alive. He’s real. He’ll be back.

Fitz won’t. Fitz is gone forever. Gone because she dragged him here, away from the lab and into the field. Gone because she wasn’t fast enough: getting the file, convincing May, convincing Coulson…saving him. He was still alive when Grant brought him onto the Bus. She could’ve saved him, if she were faster. Smarter. _Better_.

Fitz is gone forever. It’s her fault.

Grant isn’t. Is he? No, he was just here. Wasn’t he?

He told her to watch her timer. She does. It’s green.

He’s alive. He’s alive, but he’s not here, and she’s going to drown, without him.

No. No, he’ll be back in a moment. He’ll be sad if he sees her crying. He doesn’t like to see her cry. She lifts her left arm (keeps her right in her lap, her timer in view—still green) and wipes her face on her sleeve.

Not her sleeve, she realizes. Fitz’s. She’s wearing the cardigan that she was holding earlier. When did that happen? When did it leave her arms and settle on her shoulders? She has no memory of it at all.

She thinks she must be quite mad.

The other door opens, and Grant enters the car.

“You okay?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt. “Timer still green?”

She checks. It is. He’s real, and he’s here. That’s good. She won’t drown, if he’s with her.

“I’m sorry I had to leave,” he says. “But it was really important, and I’m back now. Are you ready to go?”

Yes. Yes, she is. She _needs_ to leave, to be away from the Bus and everything that happened here. But leaving the Bus means leaving Fitz, too, doesn’t it?

…He can’t come with them. He’s already gone.

“Jemma?” Grant prompts softly.

She doesn’t think she can speak. She nods, instead.

“Okay,” he says. “Here we go.”

He starts the car and shifts it into gear, then pulls away from the Bus. She doesn’t watch in the mirror as they drive away. She keeps her eyes on her wrist, the green glow of her timer (Grant’s alive) against the wool of the cardigan she’s wearing (Fitz isn’t).

Her soulmate is alive. He’s right here, next to her. She doesn’t have to worry. He’ll take care of everything.

Her best friend is dead. She’ll never see him again. It’s her fault. Her fault and SHIELD’s fault.

She reaches across the console for Grant’s hand, and clings to it desperately as the water swallows her whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be another, plottier chapter to this someday. Obviously the main story is my focus, but I have some thoughts on where this might go. We'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
